


Only Forever

by orphan_account



Series: If You Want Forever [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Background Character Death, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-23 05:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The company is the perfect analogy for an animal.  It eats you up, digests you, and eventually shits you out. Like any living, breathing being. Waylon was eaten up by Murkoff two weeks prior to now. Today is September 17th, 2013, and two hours ago, at the order of Jeremy Blaire, Waylon Park was shit out. Rewritten from a previous work.





	1. September 15

** Two days until The Riot **

 

The cafeteria buzzed with activity, all manners of staff lined up with their aluminum trays to receive their 'specially made' lunches. The room had been packed. Nurses to therapists and executives to scientists. Those in line weren't a lively bunch, but some had strayed from the line toward the vending machines, usually in pairs to keep up their conversations. Others simply sat at their tables, enjoying the warm murmur of the crowd and the golden streaks of sunshine pouring in from the barred windows.

Waylon was among those in line, sandwiched between a heavyset scientist and a janitor, clutching his tray tightly. He fidgeted with his fingernails and let his mind wander off while he waited for the serpentine strand of people to inch forward. To pass the time he watched the dust motes shimmering in what dainty shafts of light were coming in through the windows. It only lasted a few seconds, however. When that could no longer keep his focus he turned to find something new.

One of the cafeteria workers was sitting at an empty table just next to the entrance to the kitchen, a cigarette in hand and a tray topped with foil in the other. He was an older man, maybe in his early to mid sixties, silver hair tangled in a hair net and a stoma peeking out over the collar of his uniform. Waylon grimaced while he watched the cook hold the cigarette to the wide slit in his throat, nearly being caught staring. He had to look away, but after a few seconds passed, Waylon looked back and saw that the cigarette had been put out. The cook was now currently unwrapping his lunch, fanning away smoke, unaware that he had an audience.

Naturally tall, Waylon didn't need to crane his neck too far to see the cook peel the foil back to reveal what he had. It was fairly easy to see the steamed veggies and accompanying sesame sauce dripping oil back into the wrapping. The cook speared a glistening stalk of asparagus and waved a fly away with a hand before taking his first bite. He watched the hand slicing through the air, unaware for a moment that its owner had caught him staring this time. Waylon cleared his throat and turned away.  
He scratched his chin. A mere five-o-clock shadow yesterday could be compared to a full beard today. Waylon noted that he needed to shave when he took his daily shower after dinner tonight and took a few steps forward to follow the line now that it was finally moving.

Waylon didn't know why he was here sometimes. Why he had chosen to be away from Lisa and their two- soon to be three -beautiful children. She would have reminded him to shave as soon as his baby-smooth face had stubble, and told him to change his clothes. He'd been wearing the same outfit for three days now, and it wasn't that he forgot to change-- More that he just couldn't be bothered anymore. Hell, he barely knew how he had survived a mere day without her, let alone nearly two weeks. He wished he could call her. Maybe even write her a letter or an email, but unfortunately that wasn't allowed. Instead he made up her letter in his head.

_Miss you, Lisa Honey. Can't wait to see you and the boys again. Work has been a drag but at least I'll be getting some time off soon. You can tell John that I'll be home for his birthday this year. I promise._   
_Love, Waylon._

Waylon moved up in line. The crowd was starting to thin now and he was almost to the front. Now close enough to see where the line began, Waylon sucked in the warm, comforting smells of soup, cooked veggies, pork and rice. His mouth watered, having been more hungry than he'd realized. It seemed like forever before he was finally next in line to get his lunch, when the scientist behind him shoved Waylon aside to be first. He opened his mouth to complain- then thought better of it.

The scientist, a stubby man with rodentlike features, a blue hazmat suit, and a 'hello, my name is-' name tag, was known by most of the staff as Awful Andrew. He'd been given a bad rap when he'd allegedly 'shoved' one of the female interns down a flight of stairs back in the brief span of time they hadn't known the engine caused phantom pregnancies and women were allowed in the facility. She'd broken her right arm, cracked her right femur, and completely shattered her wrist as well as caused her nonexistent baby to miscarry. Leering, Awful Andrew looks up at him and shows nasty yellow teeth, seemingly unaware of their height difference.   
Despite being shorter, Andrew was more built, and could probably kick his ass in hand-to-hand combat. Waylon looked away from him and decided he wasn't worth the energy.

After Andrew got his lunch, he finally stepped out of the way for the tech to get his. Waylon flashed the man behind the counter a shy smile and held his tray out, waiting for him to pile food onto it. The cafeteria worker grumbled a greeting and ladled out rice, soup, and a sliver of seasoned pork onto Waylon's plate. He received a smile and a nod in return.   
"See ya 'round."  
Waylon shuffled away from the counter with his food and strode toward the lonely corner near where the cook had been. By habit he glanced in that direction, but the sad old man had vanished.

He plopped down at an empty table and unwrapped a plastic fork, like usual thinking back on his life before this. The long drive from Boulder to Leadville had been the last bonding moments with his family, remembering hands gripping the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles white- coffee the only thing keeping his eyes open. Waylon remembered Lisa humming along to Patsy Cline's 'Walking After Midnight' to calm down John, who wouldn't stop crying no matter what they did. Supposedly because his ears were popping, but he was signing so frantically that Lisa couldn't tell what it was about. Peter was sound asleep in his car seat. There were crumpled wrapping papers from burgers and fries scattered around their rental truck, rolling around on the floors and seats. Waylon's burger remained half eaten on the paper in his lap, being slowly consumed at every stop.

Waylon returned to reality as soon as the intercom crackled on. "Consulting contact 2134, please report to Dr. Neil Wolfram in lab A..."  
He breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't him, ran a hand through his blonde locks, and scooped up a forkful of rice and pork. The brown rice was a bit overcooked- mushy now with excessive boiling, but it was well-seasoned and made up in flavor for the texture. It was better than Lisa's cooking, though he'd never tell her that. She couldn't boil water, but he loved her anyway.

"Park!" Cried a voice. Waylon turned to identify it, catching the gaze of the bright-eyed young guard he called a friend. David. Waylon's lips split into a full grin, standing up to greet him.

"There you are." Waylon remarked, barely being able to prepare himself for the hug that Dave gave him. Despite being an intimidating 6'4 wall of muscle, the 34 year old guard was a pretty affectionate man. The two embraced for a quiet moment before Waylon had to pull away, seating himself back down with his food. David sat next to him.

They were an odd pair, to be sure. Both men were married, in their thirties, and cut off from their wives and children. David was affectionate and Waylon was antisocial. But both of them were outcasts here, and by the law of social functions, outcasts stick together.   
David snatched Waylon's spoon, pulling his soup closer to himself. "Where've you been, Park? I haven't seen you for nearly a week."

"They've been running me ragged downstairs. Apparently there's been a breach in security, and they've needed me to set up firewall patches left and right." Waylon took another bite of pork and rice, chewing slowly. "Fun stuff, right? But there's also been a ton of errors lately. FMRI has been malfunctioning on a regular basis."  
"No excuse, Parkie." David stirred the soup idly. "I had to sit with Raul and his idiot friends."

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"..ehh...it's fine. You can make it up to me later."

"Have you been able to talk to Laurel?" Waylon asked, lifting his head. Laurel was David's pretty trophy wife, a dumb but kindhearted woman with Carmel ringlets and the most beautiful Amber eyes you could ever see. Waylon had only seen pictures of her, but from the sound of it, Dave loved and missed her a whole lot.  
"I was allowed a phone call about a day ago... She said hello, by the way... My daughter just started kindergarten. Laurel put her on. She sounded so excited."

"Yeah..four is a fun age." Waylon chuckled "I remember John's first day of school. God...they grow up so fast. Can't believe he's in third grade now."  
The two shared a laugh. David propped his head up with an elbow on the table, "How about Lisa? She's supposed to pop any day, right?"

"Any day now." He affirmed, "Her due date is supposed to be on the eighteenth. I think maybe if I tell the boss that he'll let me call her or something."  
"Don't mean to rain on your parade, Parkie, but Mr. Blaire and Mr. Gluskin don't take kindly to outside interaction. Even though they let me call Laurel, they took a dollar out of my paycheck for every minute we were on the phone."

"How much money did you lose?"

"Maybe...twenty..thirty dollars?" Dave prodded a carrot floating in his soup. Waylon was struck with thick, shocked silence. Thirty dollars for a phone call? He could only imagine what going to be with his wife while she gave birth would cost. Dave didn't look up. "It was worth it. I haven't talked to her in months."   
Dave scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble and gave a hard frown, age lines on his face deepening. He wasn't old, but the constant stress of the job made him look a decade older. More exhausted. The grey orbs floating in a milky white sclera could be compared to a storm on the ocean.

Waylon brushed a a ruler-straight gold strand of hair out of his eyes and watched his friend with a matching frown. "..I'm sorry...have you, uh... Thought about quitting your job here?"

"I was thinking about it...but.." He sighs, "I know what happens to people that want to quit...and I want to wait until something significant happens to give me a better reason than 'I'm lonely'." David scoops another spoonful into his mouth, contemplating. "I'm sure it won't be long before I find one."

Waylon was about to say something in response when the intercom whined back to life. The smooth voice of the CEO, Mr. Garrett Gluskin. "Waylon Park, Consulting contact 8208...please report to the Morphogenic Engine room. I repeat, report to the Morphogenic Engine room..." The tech sighed, throwing David an annoyed look, which was quickly intercepted by Dave's expression of sympathy. "Sorry man. That's you. I'll see you later tonight, right? We can go to the theater and watch a movie with the crazies."  
"Sounds like a plan."

"Alright, Parkie. See you soon."  
-  
The engine room was scarcely lit, so the machine's natural light could blind both the patients and the scientists more easily. In all the engine was about the size of a football stadium, and twice as bright, wires and tubes hanging anywhere and everywhere. Big, bright screens filled the room with disturbing images- dancing Inkblot characters. The light glanced off the glassy pods, but the inhabitants did not notice, their brains overstimulated with activity.

FMRI was dark again. Waylon typed a few commands and brought it back to life with no trouble, letting his mind wander while the screen flickered with the face of yet another poor soul. A few of the other staff members chatted while they studied differing brain scans, just a few feet from where he sat. A red error flashed on the screen. Waylon put his hands back on the keyboard and worked to correct it, coaxing gently...almost lovingly, and at last FMRI lit up with a man's face, his patient number and his name.

_NAME: Dixon Worthy_   
_PATIENT NO. 250_

Dixon was a handsome man, or was, before the engine mangled his features. Ivory skin attributed to a lack of vitamin d painted his strong cheekbones, which quickly melted into the lilac bruises around murky autumnal eyes. A snakelike trail of what the doctors called 'engine rash' started at his lower lip, which was swelled so bad that his teeth showed even when he closed his mouth, and slithered down his chin, to spread across his neck in cracked, inflamed patches.   
Dixon stared into the camera, stirring more feelings of remorse. Waylon thought..perhaps David did have the right idea in leaving. Both to see his family and to stop the horrendous cruelty. 

Another vulnerable animal, used up and filled with Wernicke's nightmares. All because nobody cared enough to think on them, at least enough to check on their wellbeing. The families of what broken men living here were too busy to care anymore. It was sad.  Waylon pitied this miserable creature. For God only knew if he'd be in the exact situation, he could only speculate if his own family would be so callous.

"You're finished here, Mr. Park." One of the doctors said. There was no face, only a black gas mask and crinkled blue plastic, yet the tech could feel the grimace beneath that sickly looking wrapping. His stomach turned, and he had to look away while he stood, brushed imaginary dust off his jeans, and shuffled lifelessly back into the hall outside the control center.   
The hall looked like it had been a tunnel before it was sanded, polished, and painted. Waylon never felt safe when he walked through it. The mountain always seemed to growl when he did...like it was alive. Like it was angry at him.

His small workspace was riddled in trash and shelves filled with supplies to keep the engine going. Waylon plopped down at his small desk and opened his laptop, fishing a plugin from one of the drawers. He jammed the USB into his laptop's port, and watched the screen flash with a 'removable device detected' notification, immediately clicking the option to scan it. Multiple folders within filled with files that needed to be sorted. Waylon started with the first section of files and dragged a few folders to his desktop, clicking to check their content before dragging them to their destined resting place. Most of it was court paperwork, warrants, but Waylon hadn't gotten to sorting the patient files yet. He was nervous to see the pictures that undoubtedly lay within, knowing with full certainty that they would be just as horrifying as Dixon, if not more so.

Reluctantly, Waylon dragged another legal file into the designated folder and moved his cursor toward the first patient file. It was labeled accordingly with the name...  
 _PROJECT WALRIDER PATIENT STATUS: WILLIAM HOPE_

Hesitant, though curious, he clicked on the file to reveal its contents.

_"MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS_   
_PROJECT WALRIDER_   
_Mount Massive CO_   
_Case Number: 174_   
_Patient Initials: WPH, "Billy"_   
_Consultation Dated: 2012.10.14_   
_Initial Date of Patient Consult: 2009.04.12_   
_Patient Age: 19_   
_Gender: Male_   
_Observing Physician: Dr. Carl Houston (DBNR)_

_THERAPY STATUS:_   
_Patient claims to have progressed to self-directed lucid dream states. MORPHOGENIC ENGINE activity observed at unprecedented scale. Continuing stage 4 hormone schedule._

_DIAGNOSTICS:_

_Spirometry revealed no bronchial accumulation._

_Hematocrit centrifuge again failed to separate erythrocytes. Highly worrisome._

_MRI revealed arhythmic REM/NREM cycle. Laughter in NREM state._

_INTERVIEW NOTES:_   
_Billy asked about the status of his mother's lawsuit against Murkoff and the asylum. This represents a catastrophic breach in security, despite Billy's claims that he discovered the truth 'in the blood dreams of Doctor Trager.' (Note: the only Trager on company records, one Richard Trager, is an executive from M.R.D.) All orderlies and security personnel must be questioned and video security improved to include analytical biometrics._

_MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS PROJECT WALRIDER_   
_Mount Massive CO"_

Ah, yes. The wonder boy. From what he'd heard from eavesdropping in both the cafeteria and in the engine room, he was making the most progress in PROJECT WALRIDER. Raul talked fondly of him in the conversations he had with Wolfram and Snow. Which Waylon only knew because he had "accidentally" on purpose stood too close to him in line. Unfortunately because of the wonder boy, one of the doctors had been entered into the morphogenic engine program.

The file wasn't too graphic until he got to the pictures. This patient was supposed to be nineteen, but instead he looked eighty- wrinkled and hairless, eyes fogged with cataracts. Wayon immediately gasped at the sights. Billy in a chair, talking to Carl. Pictures of the various effects of the engine on him- rashes and blisters. Billy in one of the pods, hands and feet bound back to keep them from drifting around in the saline solution, his eyelids forced open- that he might never blink long enough to miss any of the engine's evil images.   
Waylon shivered and closed the file, dragging it off into its proper place.

A long list of names proceeded Billy's. Waylon grimaced, letting his gemlike eyes drift down the long lines of so many unfortunate souls, knowing they would all be just as bad. He was outraged. No man should be treated this way, even if he was insane. Cruel and unusual punishment was against the American constitution. The idea comes just then- expose Murkoff and all its corruption to the world. Show everyone what they've been doing here. There would be a lawsuit, no doubt, but he'd be reunited with his family at last.

But what if they hurt Lisa? Or Peter and John? What if they hurt the baby?

Waylon tried to calm himself down. It wasn't hard to turn the idea into an if-then statement, weighing it out in his head. If he exposed Murkoff in a wild, public display, then he and his family would be targeted. But if he was careful, subtle, then he'd have a chance at beating down the company and going home.  And maybe even David would be able to go home as well. He nodded to himself. Subtlety. Yes. That was how he was going to help these people and go home to his Lissy.

He clicked another file and dragged it to its proper folder, already knowing through intuition that it belonged to PROJECT WALRIDER.   
-  
Waylon hurried through the growling tunnel and jumped into the elevator, jamming the top triangle shaped button and shoving his key in. The elevator's pulley system shrieked in protest before ascending.   
Several floors passed, some dead silent and others filled to the brim with patients and staff alike. Waylon watched them pass nervously. Usually he preferred the stairs, but today his muscles ache and he can't manage it. The pulleys were old, and in him he held the fear that they would end up snapping and plunging him down to the darkest depths of the asylum. Waylon swallowed and fidgeted nervously, letting the elevator carry him up. And when he finally arrived at the floor his quarters were on, he gave a sigh of relief and hurried off the creaky machine.

His quarters were nothing special. A blank, blue room that required a keycard to enter. Waylon swiped his card and opened the door, breathing in the dusty atmosphere with familiarity. This was his only safe place. His only refuge from the cruelty that lay outside- and maybe not even that -but he reveled in the silent calm his room provided. Waylon trudged over to the bed, drew back the sheets, and melted into them, sighing at their comfort. The material was cheap, scratchy, and probably of the same fabric they clothed the patients in, but he never seemed to mind.  
He had expected to finish later, but FMRI had been cooperative this time. It left him with a free hour before David would be expecting him in the small theater. Waylon set an alarm on the digital clock next to his bed and closed his eyes, melting into the cold comfort of sleep.

The asylum seemed to sigh around him, swaying gently in the early evening breeze. What dim light flowing into his room was darkening with each passing minute, and after a while, disappeared completely, but the wind kept up. Leaves skittered across the roof above, scraping along slowly. Summer was almost over, and fall in Colorado was always windy, leafy, and calm like this. The upside to living here.

Waylon's power nap was uneventful. He snoozed easily, with no interruption, until his alarm went off. Feeling refreshed, though still a bit tired, he straightened his quarters up and combed down the rat's nest of blonde hair piled on his head. He noted how much time he spent staring in the mirror, comparing himself to how he used to be.   
Waylon was a slightly portly man, pale and splattered in gold freckles. A far cry from the muscled track star he'd been in high school. His facial features were more weathered than he remembered, bags under his eyes caked in dry, cracking skin. His blonde hair was run through with light grey- and not artificially.   
Waylon sighed at the aged strands and looked away from the mirror.   
He was going grey early, just like his mother and father before him. After all, he was only 35. That wasn't old. Not by today's standards, but it bothered him deeply for some unknown reason.

He smoothed the wrinkles out of his slightly filthy shirt and strolled out of his quarters, making sure to suck in the gut he now carted on his person. Nobody looked twice at him, besides the cameras mounted up high to the ceilings. Waylon passed the elevator in favor of the stairs, pulling the door to them open and stepping down. From where he was, he could hear the elevator start to screech from above. Some nut trying to get to the top floor.

He gripped the banister hard while he descended, the soft murmur of patients growing more and more loud the closer he got to the theater. David was waiting outside, leaned up against the whitewashed bricks with a blank expression. It brightened to a smile more radiant than the sun at Waylon's approach.   
"Hey, Parkie."

"Hey." Waylon responded, scratching his dappled chin. "Do you know what's on tonight?"  
"I think it's supposed to be a comedy?"

"Very helpful." He rolled his eyes, pulling the theater door open. Within he beheld a plethora of gathered patients, all pale and probably sedated to a certain degree. That was one thing that was common in this place- all the patients were pasty and doped up. Constantly. Waylon's eyes caught onto the back row- which was empty, save for one lonely patient -and he grabbed Dave by the elbow, pulling him in with him.   
"Come on. Let's sit in the back."

The two men scooted through the aisles toward the back, ignoring the soft brushes of hands against them. These broken men certainly enjoyed their human contact when they could get it- after all, their therapy is often isolated. Waylon kept a grip on Dave's elbow and shuffled his way to the final row, plopping down in a lush red seat just two away from the broad, silent stranger. The screen was alive with a crackling 'please be quiet and courteous' in cursive letters above a dancing popcorn box and a cup of soda.  
Waylon glanced around to find something to hold his attention while he waited for the movie to start, emerald eyes a cool, forest shade of green in the darkness. He glanced over at the lone patient, catching brief glimpses only.

He was tall. That was obvious even when he was sitting down. A neck brace kept his head in place, and it seemed he was biting on something. A gag, maybe. The man's face was partially hidden to the side, but the rough rash on his chin was visible even in the dark.   
His stripe of hair was unkempt, black and stained through with silver.   
Waylon watched him for another long moment before turning his attention back to the screen.

The movie started. The theater went silent, a chorus of ghosts breathing.

A whirring noise, a few clicks, and a few logos began to flash onscreen.  
-

_Lissy-_   
_David and I watched 'The Lost Boys' today. It's just as cheesy as I remember. I think Peter and John might like it when they're older, though. I always liked the slasher movie gore when I was a kid._   
_I miss you... Things aren't going so well here. I don't know if I'll make it home in time for John's birthday after all. I'm sorry honey._   
_-Waylon._


	2. September 16th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:   
> As I am a fairly busy person at this time in my life, I will only be posting chapters in short intervals of 1k-2k words. As I grow less busy, they will be long like the first. :) thanks for being so understanding guys.   
> <333   
> -Xyzxx  
> \-------------------------------------------

** One Day until The Riot **   
  
  


_"Parkie. Park. Wake up."_

The voice of David brought him up from his slumber. Waylon wiggled away from the shaking hands on his shoulder, pulling the blue sheets up over his head. They were quickly yanked away, replaced by David's insistence to wake him. Bleary green eyes look up at the Guard. "Whadda.. you want?"

"Get up, Park. I'll explain on the way to the engine room. Come on." Dave grabbed one of his arms by the elbow and yanked him out of bed, earning a grunt in protest. More complaining followed, and after a short moment to wake, Waylon clambered to his feet in all his pale glory and jumped in staccato steps over the cold floor to his provided dresser. His friend watched in silent disinterest, prompting Waylon to turn and tell him to look away from him while he dressed. Dave rolled his eyes and turned away.  
"You know I don't swing that way, Parkie. I don't care about what you look like."

Waylon pulled a shirt down over his head. "You know, you could be spending this time explaining what was so important to wake me up from my beauty sleep instead of teasing me." He had meant to make it sound playful, but it comes out irritated and devoid of any humor. A sigh. He turns his head to face David, who still was still facing the wall. Dave is quiet for a long moment before nodding. "I'm leaving the asylum, Parkie. I can't stand it here. I was on nightshift earlier...the things I saw, Waylon..."

"The Doctors are mistreating the patients. I have to expose it. This isn't right. I came to work for Murkoff because I thought it was a charitable organization, but I was wrong. I was so wrong, Parkie...." David curled inwards a little bit, out of Waylon's sight. "I saw a man. A giant. He was all bloody...his nose was gone and his mouth....and another. I watched them rape another and I couldn't do anything.." The voice trembled, "The doctors. They made the patients worse. I have to get out, Park. I have to go home."

"Dave, you know what happens to people who want to quit."

"I don't care what happens to me. If I stay an innocent bystander, I'm just as awful as the doctors." David turned to look at him. Now not so asleep, Waylon could see the fear and the worry, and immediately he abandoned the task of dressing to wrap his arms around the guard reluctantly. He was sniffling, crying. David was a good man and no good man would have a part of this. Waylon pulled his head into his clothed chest and tried to comfort. Ugly sobbing noises left him. He held Dave through it, frowning. "Davy...It's going to be okay. Don't cry."

"I have to leave I **_can't_** -"  
"Stop. David." Waylon went rigid. "You have a family. You have a beautiful wife and a daughter that would miss you so much if you quit now. If you try to resign, they'll put you into the program. You'll become one of the patients...You'll never see Laurel or Rosie again. Please just, keep your head down, Davy. You can't be a hero here." He softened again when David pulled away, wiping the tear streaks on his face with gentle sincerity. This wasn't David. Not by a long shot. This was a scared, helpless animal. And It pained Waylon so much to see him like this.

Sniffling, the guard pushed Waylon's hands away and nodded. "You're right. Like always, Parkie..." a humorless laugh. "Just promise me something?"  
"Anything, Davy."

"If something happens to me...you need to expose it. Get out. Get your family. Get my family...Get them as far away as you can. Please, Waylon..."  
Waylon nods, taking pity on the grey man. "I promise."  
A breathy thanks.

Waylon stretches himself and looks toward his company-provided alarm clock. Six am. He grumbles and pulls his pants on, disgruntled expression etching itself into his slightly pruned face. Dave has made himself at home, stretching out on Waylon's small twin bed and wiping his worry off on the light sheets. Too tired to snap at his friend, Waylon yawned and climbed back under the sheets next to Dave. "You're an asshole, you know that, right?"   
"What did I do this time?" David shifted under the sheets to look at him, tears replaced and the previous tender moment forgotten. Their noses nearly touched, green eyes staring into grey. Waylon shrunk a little bit and scooted slightly more toward the edge of the bed. "You woke me up before eight. And you didn't even bring me coffee to make up for it."  
David grunted and rolled back over, obviously not interested in indulging Waylon in his teasing, playful banter. The tech stared at the back of his friend's neck for a long time through half-lidded eyes, keeping to himself a good few minutes before draping an arm over Dave and snuggling closer.

Surprisingly, Dave didn't scoot away, just turn to envelop the slightly smaller man in his muscled arms. The guard holds him in place for a good minute keeping him crushed to his chest while it rose and fell. Waylon's arms stay tight around the slightly larger man, holding on for dear life. Finally comes the whisper, soft and breathy on Waylon's lips as he speaks it. "Your family is in good hands. I promise you."  
"I believe you, Parkie."  
Dave presses his face into Waylon's neck and sighs. "I just... all of the things they're doing here. It isn't charity... all of it is pure evil." The sensation of moving lips ghosting over his neck has Waylon squirming slightly, but Dave doesn't notice.  
"I can't have my family mixed up with this. _I_ can't be mixed up with this."

"But we are mixed up in this. We're too deep to completely wipe our slate clean of this place. David-" his grip on the man tightens "-like it or not, we have blood on our hands. Indirect, yes, but still blood. What will you do if you manage to get the media out here? Give justice to these people? They'll look at you no different than the scientists. They'll look at me no different than they look at Awful Andrew." green eyes close, the product of a tired and brilliant mind. "Because we are still part of Murkoff. We will be treated the same. Even if we are the ones who expose everything in this place."

"You sound so..."

"Depressing? I'm sorry. I've been trying to work on it, but it slips out sometimes."  
David shook his head audibly against the sheets. "No, I mean, you sound so _hopeless_..."  
Waylon shrugged wordlessly and let the silence speak for him. Yes, he was hopeless. He hadn't seen his family in weeks, his wife of twelve years was rumored to have been cheating at the time of the conception of their new baby girl, and now here was David- his only friend -trying to get himself volunteered for torture. Yes, he was hopeless. The silence said everything and yet David still squeezed Waylon tight in his arms and let the blue room ache with lack of words.  
Blue spread over them. A color coalescing into a tangible feeling. The light blues and greys of Waylon's quarters descended and lowered the mood to simple, hopeless sadness. Little tears budded and bloomed in Waylon's glassy green eyes. He wiped his face on David's chest, sniffling.   
"I don't have my family here, Davy. Please don't do this. If you expose it, they'll take you and I'll be alone."

"Dammit, Parkie." Dave sighed, "Be a fucking man and stop crying. You're thirty-five, not six." Waylon seemed in awe of his reaction while he did as he was told and tried to control the tears. _What a damn hypocrite!_ Discomforted, David finally scooted away from him and gave a frown. With the same grace, to Waylon's relief, he also changed the subject. "My shift is in ten minutes. I should probably get going. You... enjoy your beauty sleep, I guess. Sorry I didn't bring coffee."

"It's fine." Waylon replies sharply. "Go on before you're late, okay?"  
Dave nods, and without a word vanishes from the small room. Waylon curls into himself beneath the sheets, hugging his knees close to chase off the cold, not knowing that what was to come would surely be the absolute worst night of his adult life.

\---

**_5:00 PM_ **

Waylon listened to the water swirling down the drain to ignore the embarrassment of showering in the same room as the others, covering his genitalia with a long-fingered hand. All around him his coworkers soaped up and rinsed off, whispering in their hushed tones of the newest to be entered into the program downstairs. To hear them tell it, what happened seemed more horrific than it actually was, and hearing it depicted like that saddened him.   
It was a simple event. The offender had been trying to resign, was denied. Then he tried to transfer, threatening to expose everything, and he was sacked. Waylon had seen it, from across the cafeteria while he ate his lunch in silence.

His dear friend, David Annapurna. Waylon watched with tears boiling in his eyes as the man stood up from the table he shared with Dr. Raul, faced his fellow guards and the CEO, Garrett Gluskin, and was forced to his knees for 'public humiliation'. He couldn't look away no matter how hard he tried, and couldn't bring himself to stop the ordeal. He was afraid. He knew that Dave had meant well, but it had come back to bite him in the end.

After the first ordeal came the next. Garrett stood back while the guards Dave had called friends beat him senseless and dragged him out of Waylon's view. It didn't take a genius to know he was entered into the program, like everyone else that dared defy the Murkoff Corporation. And Waylon hated himself for simply sitting there, vowing to have his revenge and fulfill that promise he'd made to David just hours before.

There in the shower, surrounded by the shadows and the people he'd soon find dead, Waylon formulated a plan.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. It's been forever since I've written or posted anything here.  
> I hope this is still as good.


End file.
